


He Came

by thomasjeffersonsmacaroni



Series: The Other 51 [45]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 05:16:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10984125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thomasjeffersonsmacaroni/pseuds/thomasjeffersonsmacaroni
Summary: John Laurens always came.





	He Came

**Author's Note:**

> First Jamilton fic: my most kudosed fic to date, 18K  
> First Hamburr fic: described as heartbreaking, fourth most kudosed fic to date  
> First Lams fic: this piece of trash that I cooked up in two days

He came to that bar in New York City with his usual two friends. They were young then, bright eyes taking in the world, ready to change it and turn it upside down.

Never in a million years would any of them have expected to see a nineteen-year-old, bouncing around almost subconsciously, brown eyes ten times brighter than theirs.

"I'm John Laurens," he said to the mysterious man, burying his awe deep inside of his chest.

"Alexander Hamilton, here to destroy the British."

John already couldn't remember the words he said after that. But he would never forget the pounding of Alexander's feet on the bar table, echoed in his own heartbeat, screams of revolution burning in his ears.

 

He came a little while after that, and the new foursome shared drinks, all on Alexander. They were the only four there. Only the bartender, wiping down the counters and humming to himself, accompanied them.

"To the revolution," Lafayette said solemnly, lifting his glass into the air. The others nodded, smiles on their faces, but John could see that there was darkness behind them.

After all, revolution brought with it death.

Alexander noticed how John lowered his glass self-consciously. He leaned over and wrapped his arm around his shoulders, hand squeezing slightly in comfort.

The group took another drink. Then, John raised his glass once more.

"To freedom."

"And to us," Alexander added.

"Yes. To us."

John didn't know back then exactly what "us" meant. It was only an abstract concept instead of something real.

But it was okay. Both he and Alexander would figure it out eventually.

 

He came to that little secluded spot under the tree, and they sat side-by-side, Alexander ripping up the drying leaves and throwing them into the soft wind.

"General Washington nominated me as his personal aide," Alexander said eventually. He still had the buzz around him, as if at any moment he might jump up and deliver a speech, but it was dulled through still eyes staring ahead.

"Alex, that's great! Why are you so sad?"

"I wanted to fight. Like you and Laf and Herc. I mean, I stole the cannons, for heavens' sake! Don't you think that counts for _something?"_

John nodded. "I get that. But I mean, this isn't permanent, is it? You can rise up. Fight in the revolution. It'll be okay."

He expected an argument; Alexander was naturally that kind of person. But he got none. Only a sigh.

"I guess. But..."

John placed a hand on Alexander's shoulder. "You're perfect to me just the way you are."

Some kind of electricity passed between them. John didn't know if he ever had, or ever would, experience it again. So before it was too late, but this picture-perfect scene faded away, before they were married or dead or away or a combination of the three, John leaned forward and kissed him.

Alexander gasped, a soft thing that sounded like a baby bird looked, and kissed back with more gentleness than John thought could ever exist inside of him. It felt like hours before they finally broke apart, gasping for air, looking at each other with freshly born eyes.

"We need to keep it secret," John whispered.

"Yes, yes, of course."

They kissed again.

 

He came to Philip Schuyler's ball. And when his friends - and, for some reason, Aaron Burr - joked about finding women, John joked with them.

After all, how could he tell the people he had known for years, the people whom he considered among his closest friends, that there was no woman whom he would love? How would he even begin?

John stood to the side of the room and took bites of the small sandwiches that were laid out on the table. He watched Alexander talk to a pretty young girl with long hair and bright black eyes, a certain look brightening his face.

Slowly, he began putting down the sandwiches and moving to the other side of the room. There was a bottle of whiskey there, and the bartender poured glass and glass and handed them around.

John arrived and downed it all and left and arrived again. After the fifth time, the bartender's face furrowed into lines of concern.

"A broken heart?" he guessed.

John nodded. "Another. Again. Broken heart."

Six, seven, eight, until everything was blurry and nothing was real. Again and again and again, to fill the sinkhole deep in his soul, but every drink seemed to widen it more.

And then, a hand around his wrist, gripping it tightly and yanking him out, setting him down on a bench. Two brown eyes stared into his own through the blurriness.

"John. John, stop. Please stop."

John closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry. About Eliza. Really, I am."

John tried to speak, but nothing came out. He was too tired for words.

"I...know..." he finally slurred.

"You know what?"

"I know...that we can't last."

Alexander pulled him close but said nothing. Only a sob escaped him.

 

He came to the wedding. Alexander and Elizabeth Hamilton were married in the beautiful ballroom of the Schuyler mansion. Everyone danced, everyone was happy, everything was perfect and picturesque.

John sat to the back with a woman who had introduced herself as Angelica Schuyler, Eliza's older sister. Both of them ordered glass after glass of wine, and they took sips as they watched the festivities with sad smiles on their faces.

"You too?" she finally asked him.

She didn't need to say what she meant. The wine seemed to connect them perfectly.

 

He came to that duel against Charles Lee, even though he really didn't want to, deep inside of him. But Lee had disrespected the General, whom Alexander held in extremely high regard, and for that, he would need to pay.

John took deep breaths to steady himself. It was only after the second one that he realized that he didn't really need them.

"Are you all right?"

John turned around and saw Alexander walking towards him.

"Yeah," he said lightly. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"It's almost time. Are you ready?"

"Of course."

Something overtook him, and he wrapped Alexander into a hug, pressing their foreheads together.

"You're the closest friend I've got, you know that?"

 _Friend._ That was all that they could be now. The sound of that word burned around them.

Alexander nodded. "Good luck out there."

John left. There was nothing more.

 

He came to South Carolina. According to Alexander's letters, all the action was happening in Yorktown, but no matter. John would do his duty for the revolution.

Guns crackled around him, smoke spreading through the air and flooding his senses. Far away, people screamed commands. Everything was so loud. So loud.

John still hadn't responded to Alexander's last letter. It was on his desk, covered hastily with papers, bottle of ink by its side. He had read it over and over and over again.

Alexander always wrote so beautifully. His letters were filled with paragraph upon paragraph about how much he loved Eliza and the revolution and John, and even though he wrote it practically every time, it was still a surprise. Alexander's heart seemed to be one of those that was built to love until it stopped beating.

He would need to write back. But for that, he would need to finish this up once and for all.

The revolution and the promise of freedom raged all around him. Maybe it would be over soon, but not yet.

Not yet.

Something was hurting in his left side, hurting more than the usual battle wound. John called for help, vision already fading, and was swiftly escorted away.

 

Three days later, John Laurens died, freedom still and always written on his lips. And two weeks later, Alexander Hamilton came to his gravestone.


End file.
